


One Moment

by olivejuice28



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hogwarts, Open Ending, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 09:20:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22493716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivejuice28/pseuds/olivejuice28
Summary: It's often the little moments that add up to big things.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 33
Kudos: 208





	One Moment

**First Year**

He had only been at school for a little over a month, but he already knew he preferred studying in the library as opposed to the emerald green dungeons. The common room was always so crowded and noisy, and while he sometimes spread his parchments and texts all over his bed or the floor of his dormitory, he found he liked having a table to sit at much better.

It was during his regular trips to the vast and silent hall of books that he started noticing her. Hermione Granger. The Muggleborn witch who had taken up with Potter and Weasley and joined the ranks of puffed-up Gryffindors immediately upon arriving at the ancient school. She was swotty and annoying and her chaotic curls looked like they’d strangle anyone who came within a wand’s length, but there was something about her…

He would watch her sometimes, in the quiet space where candles flickered and the only sounds were that of pages turning or quills scratching. The very first time he’d encountered her, she was sitting at a table diagonally across the wide center aisle from him. He’d been too absorbed with setting out his supplies and finding the additional tomes he needed to pay attention to his surroundings, and it wasn’t until he’d settled into his seat and set to work that his gaze had landed on her.

She was scribbling notes furiously on a long scroll of parchment, four different books open in front of her, her brow furrowed and her lips puckered in concentration. He’d never admit it, even if his life depended on it, but he was intrigued by her. He couldn’t align her obvious intelligence or her magical talent with the beliefs he’d been raised to honor. She wasn’t stupid or boorish or even ugly. It was confusing, to say the least.

And so, he kept watching her, kept trying to figure out what it was about her that held his attention so keenly. He returned to the exact same table every time, knowing she would be in her familiar place as well. They never spoke, never even made eye contact. As far as he could tell, she barely even registered anyone else was around, too deeply immersed in academics to be distracted by the mere presence of another student.

Here, in this sanctuary of knowledge, he felt like he could admit things to himself. Here, he felt like he could be a little bit brave. Tonight, he knew she was working on the same History of Magic assignment he had been, so after he packed his bag, he approached her. He stopped right at the edge of her table, which caused her to look up, rather startled by his sudden appearance. Her wide brown eyes studied him curiously and before she could ask him what he wanted, he placed an ancient text down beside her essay.

“I think you might find this helpful,” he nodded towards her unfinished essay and allowed his mouth to turn up in the smallest of smiles before spinning on his heels and walking quickly to the exit.

**Second Year**

She’d been petrified. He felt sick. He’d never honestly thought it would happen to her; she was too smart, too quick. He hadn’t meant it when he’d said he’d hoped it would be her, hadn’t really wanted any harm to come to her, he just said it because he was supposed to, right? And now she was lying in the hospital wing with the others for Merlin knew how long and the whole thing made him want to vomit.

He’d spent most of the year furious with her for her snide remark about him “buying” his way onto the Slytherin team. So what if his father decided to gift the players with new brooms? He was still a right good seeker and nothing could take that away from him. He deserved to be on the team just as much as Saint Potter deserved to be on Gryffindor’s, not that he’d ever compliment the git’s flying abilities.

No, he’d show her. He’d prove he earned that spot by winning every match and catching every snitch and then she wouldn’t be able to accuse him of only being on there because of a pile of gold in a Gringotts vault. At least, that had been his plan. Unfortunately, the irritating know-it-all only attended matches that Gryffindor played in, and even those she spent half the time with her nose in a book.

Right now, he was pacing the end of an empty corridor while most of the school was at dinner. He knew Potter and Weasley had been to see her, and he also knew Madam Pomfrey had very strict rules about visitors. He couldn’t just waltz in there and expect to be granted access to any of the frozen students, much less one he was widely known to taunt and sneer at on a daily basis.

But he needed to see her. He didn’t know why, he just _did_. He decided to wait until everyone would be back in their dormitories for the night, until right before curfew. That would give him some time to figure out what he wanted to do or say or whatever. In the meantime, having no appetite whatsoever, he decided to take a walk down to the greenhouses.

Several hours later, he was standing in the shadows of an alcove near the tall oaken doors of the hospital wing. In one fist, he clutched a small bunch of blooming aconite that he had carefully stripped the leaves off of before tying them together with a thin white ribbon. In the other, a folded piece of parchment no larger than his palm grew slightly damp with his nervousness.

He stepped towards the doors only to have them swung open by Professor Dumbledore who halted at once and gazed at him curiously from behind his half-moon spectacles. The aged wizard glanced down at the flowers and back up at his face, a kind smile twitching beneath his beard. The headmaster said not a word, but held the door open and gestured for him to enter. He nodded in silent thanks and passed through.

He could see the matron’s shadow bustling about her office in the dim light, and focused his attention on the occupied beds before him. There were four beds with screens around them, and he knew she must be in one of them. Without making a sound, he made his way to the first one only to find it was an older girl, a Ravenclaw Prefect he thought. He moved to the next one and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. Her chestnut curls were spread out on the pillow behind her, her bright eyes wide with shock, her mouth a perfect “o.” He stepped closer, coming right up beside her so he could place the tiny bouquet on the nightstand next to her. He stared at her for a few seconds before he heard Madam Pomfrey rustling papers and knew he’d have to leave quickly, so as not to get caught.

He tucked the note he’d written in her robe pocket, hoping she’d find it soon, hoping everything would be set to rights and he could stop worrying about this girl he didn’t even like. With one last glance at her stationary form, he crept silently out the way he’d come.

When Hermione was restored in the days ahead, she found a folded piece of parchment in her pocket containing three words in a script she didn’t recognize.

_Please wake up._

**Third Year**

He had never been so angry, so humiliated, so degraded in his entire life. She had _slapped_ him. The self-righteous, jumped up, little bint had slapped him across the face. In front of his friends. In front of _her_ friends. While he always found it worth his while to rile her up, he never in a million years expected her to get violent with him. And over what, the _gamekeeper_? Like that oaf needed some scrawny little witch to stick up for him.

He hated her. Loathed her. Despised every inch of her short, delicate frame. No, not delicate, he snorted. No one who packed a wallop like that could be considered delicate. She was definitely short, though, he thought with superiority. And her hands were tiny; he’d noticed that one day in Potions when he’d been watching her cut up daisy roots. Her fingers deftly handled the knife and completed tasks so quickly it was almost mesmerizing.

He shook his head and gave a disgruntled huff. What was he thinking about her hands for, for Salazar’s sake? He should be focusing on plotting his revenge for her embarrassing him like that, for daring to lash out against him. He thought about the look of fury and fierce determination in her face as she’d stalked towards him, the fire in her eyes as she stood toe-to-toe with him for a split second before smacking him.

Her eyes were so expressive, so full of emotion, and such a unique shade of brown, almost like chocolate with flecks of gold. _What? No. That’s mental._ They’re brown like dirt. Like mud. He chuckled to himself, but then felt a sinking in his gut. He knew he didn’t really think of her that way. He just didn’t know exactly what he thought. It was easy when he was with his housemates, to put her in the box of prejudice titles he’d been taught all his life. But when he was on his own, like he was now, it was harder.

He was strolling around the side of the lake, several weeks after their explosive encounter, when he spotted her sitting along the banks. She had spread her cloak on the ground and was sitting with her legs crossed under her, a giant orange fur-ball curled up in her lap. He glanced around and saw the Wonder Twins were nowhere to be seen, and recalled hearing about some sort of row between her and Weasel back on Halloween.

He paused behind a tree and watched her. She seemed to be staring off into the distance, mindlessly petting her squashy-faced menace when he saw her wipe her eyes with the back of her other hand. She was crying. He expected this to make him feel happy, expected to feel pleased that she was obviously miserable, yet that wasn’t what he felt at all. In fact, his initial reaction was one of pity, which confused him immensely.

The longer he stood there watching her tears, the worse he felt about it until the gnawing in his gut wouldn’t let him remain action-less for a second longer. He approached her cautiously, not wanting to startle her, which again made him question his sanity, and stopped a few feet away.

“I think he might be part kneazle, you know,” he drawled with much more confidence than he felt. She had jumped slightly at this sudden intrusion and turned her red-rimmed gaze on him, a small frown marring her pretty face. _Wait, no, not pretty._ He argued with himself for a heartbeat or two before he realized she was still staring at him, clearly wondering why he was there.

“They’re supposed to be extremely intelligent creatures,” he nodded to the fluffy lump in her lap, “Excellent judge of character, too.” He gave her a small, lopsided smirk as her eyes widened and she blinked owlishly at him. He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face and was rewarded for his unguarded moment with a shy smile and a rosy blush on her cheeks.

**Fourth Year**

It was two days after the Yule Ball and he still couldn’t get her out of his mind. He’d fallen asleep that night, after wrenching himself out of Pansy’s suffocating grasp, remembering how she’d looked and his dreams had been filled with swirls of periwinkle and a melodic laugh. It had been the same last night as well and it was driving him barmy. So she looked nice, so what? Just because she learned how to fix that nest she called hair didn’t mean he needed to obsess over her.

Oh, who was he kidding? He’d been obsessing over Hermione Granger for three and a half years. He’d done a smashing good job of hiding it, though, and compartmentalizing it so it didn’t affect his daily existence. He spent most days ignoring her completely. When he was forced to interact with her, it was through insults and caustic glares. He still watched her, mostly in the library or across the Great Hall, although she seemed to be more aware of him as time went on and he’d had to curb his surveillance, allowing himself only sideways glances or a blink or two in her direction.

The night of the dance, though, he hadn’t been able to stop staring. Thankfully, with everyone milling about, laughing, talking, and flailing, no one had noticed that his gaze continually landed on the stunning witch on the arm of one Victor Krum. He’d been so smug when the Durmstrang students had sat at their table and joined their ranks back in October, but now he hated the surly Quidditch player. Hated how she’d beamed at the dark haired foreigner as they’d swirled around the floor, hated how she’d blushed when he’d kissed her hand and whispered Godric-knew-what into her ear.

A rumor had reached him that after the Ball, she and Weasel had gotten into a massive row and she’d stormed off to bed in tears. Well, the red-headed twat had never been the brightest candle in the bunch, so whatever he’d done or said probably deserved her wrath. However, once again, instead of feeling elated that her night had ended on an awful note, he felt sorry for her. He didn’t know why, and didn’t really want to try to figure it out, but every time he thought of her floating by on a cloud of pale blue silk, her eyes sparkling and her perfect lips turned up in a beautiful smile, it made his heart clench to think she’d wound up crying.

He was still mulling this frustrating bout of sympathy over as he made his way down the hall, only to come face-to-face with the object of his musings. The petite brunette was walking in the opposite direction, but her eyes were focused on the book in her hands, not on where she was going. Without thinking about it, he veered slightly to the left causing his elbow to jostle her arm. Her head snapped up and her eyes flew to his face, a look of consternation flashing across her own. Before she could yell at him, however, words rushed out of his mouth of their own accord.

“I see getting that mop you call hair under control was a one-off, huh Granger?” his tone was more teasing than sneering than he would’ve liked, but he couldn’t take it back. Her eyes narrowed as if she wasn’t sure what to make of his comment. He stepped away from her and tossed another line over his shoulder, “You did look nice, though.”

It took Herculean effort not to turn around to see her expression, which went from shocked, to bemused, to pleased, before she continued her journey.

**Fifth Year**

She was basically living in the library. He only noticed this because the amount of time he spent in there had also increased this year with O.W.L.’s coming up soon. Throughout the fall and into early winter, her routine had been similar to that of years past, where several nights a week she would settle at “her” table with books and parchment strewn around her. Once the holidays were over, though, she could be found there every weeknight, and for at least a few hours on Sundays.

He found it oddly comforting, being there with her in the almost-silent space, glancing at her every so often from “his” table across the aisle. He often wondered what was going through her mind as she filled page after page with her tiny, precise script. He could almost hear her brain whirring from where he sat and even sometimes let himself imagine a conversation they could have regarding an assignment or essay.

As winter melted into spring, however, he noticed a shift in her pattern as well as her demeanor. She started skipping meals, if her empty seat between the Dunderhead Duo was any indication, and the piles of books surrounding her seemed to grow with each passing day. He’d passed close enough to her in the hall at one point to see dark circles under her eyes, and took that to mean she wasn’t sleeping much, either. That bothered him, and he didn’t know why.

He realized one day, after a particularly heated exchange between himself and the three Gryffindors, that for all the time he spent thinking about her or watching her that he only ever interacted with her negatively. Except once a year. There had been one moment each year since they had started attending Hogwarts that he had allowed himself to do or say something that went against everything he was supposed to stand for. One single instance where he let his guard down and showed her a miniscule glimpse of who he was behind the cold, sneering mask he was expected to wear. And he carried those moments with him, stored them up and treasured them as something good, knowing he’d probably need the happiness they granted him in the days to come.

Taking stock of the fact that it was April and he had yet to indulge in his lone act of benevolence, he considered his options. He knew she was wearing herself out with studying for exams. He also knew, though he had yet to prove it, that she was part of the underground group rebelling against Umbridge. He couldn’t help but admire her for it, though he knew it wouldn’t help him to add that to the list of things he appreciated about her. A list that had grown each year whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Deciding not to let on that he knew about Potter’s secret club, he instead settled on a simple plan that wouldn’t involve confronting her at all, which was probably for the best. He didn’t think she’d accept anything from him, or trust anything he said and he honestly didn’t blame her. The line drawn in the sand was deeper and wider this year than ever before.

A few nights after his brainstorm, he was once again in the library, surreptitiously keeping an eye on her as she frantically flipped through pages in various texts and jotted down notes so vehemently she broke two quills in the span of an hour. The moment he was waiting for came after the third quill broke, not because she was writing too forcefully, but because she snapped it in half in clear annoyance over something she’d found, or not found, in the book currently in front of her. She threw the broken utensil down on top of the offending tome and shot up out of her chair, and stomped off between the shelves in search of something more to her liking.

He immediately waved his wand, sending all of his belongings back into his bag, before quickly and quietly striding over to her table. He placed a large tin on top of the parchment she’d been working on, so there was no way she would miss it, and sped towards the exit.

A few seconds later, Hermione returned to her seat and found the container. She glanced around and saw no one about, including the pale blonde who had previously been working at the table across from hers. She carefully opened the lid and found a folded piece of paper laying on top of a dozen biscuits and an assortment of dried fruit. Looking at the note, she recognized the writing from another missive she’d received years earlier and it brought a smile to her face.

_Don’t forget to eat._

**Sixth Year**

It was getting harder and harder for him to stay focused, harder for him to find something, anything, to make sense of the mindless chaos his life had become. He felt like he was drowning and there was nothing to grab hold of to keep him from sinking to the bottom. But maybe that would be for the best. Maybe he should just give up and let whatever punishment the Dark Lord deemed fitting fall upon him. What did it matter anymore?

He used to take such pride in being Pureblood, found his identity in the tradition and prestige that came with being from such an ancient and noble house. He’d considered himself a class above most of his schoolmates and wore that distinction like a badge of honor. Nowadays, he was burdened with an ugly mark that reminded him daily of his sworn allegiance and the task he’d been given. He’d never wanted this.

Many nights, long after curfew, he roamed the empty corridors unable to sleep, unable to turn off his terrified brain, unwilling to ask for help lest someone find out the reason behind it. At first, he’d stuck to the dungeons where he was most familiar with the dark corners and beckoning shadows, but after a while it felt like the walls were closing in on him. He needed air, needed space. So he started wandering around other hallways.

More often than he cared to admit, his feet led him to the far end of the seventh floor where the portrait of the Fat Lady guarded the door to Gryffindor tower. He didn’t know why his subconscious was drawn there. Or, better yet, he had an inkling of why but refused to delve into it. Instead, whenever he found himself there, he’d sink down against the stone wall a few yards away and allow himself to wonder what a certain, curly-haired witch was doing, how she looked when she was sleeping, or what she would say if she found him there.

He also often replayed the handful of interactions they’d had where she wasn’t glaring at him, recalled the way her fathomless eyes looked as she studied him like he was a puzzle she wanted to solve. He would picture her pink lips turned up in a soft smile, or the way her cheeks looked when she blushed. He’d even let his mind replay the day she’d slapped him and the blazing fury so clearly etched on her beautiful face.

Merlin’s pants, he was certain he was going insane most days. Everything around him was a blur of darkness and confusion and mind-numbing terror. Everything except for her. She stood out like a beacon on a hill amidst it all and he hated himself for that weakness. He’d gotten extremely good at shoving all his emotions behind a solid, impenetrable wall, thanks to Snape, but he couldn’t stop his heart from trying to leap out of his chest every time he saw her. It had gotten worse lately, because she seemed to be watching him, too.

He felt her eyes on him whenever he was at meals, which was sporadically at best. He’d caught her openly staring several times in class, but when their eyes had met, hers only held concern and sadness, which he hadn’t known what to do with. A few times, they’d passed each other in the corridors and she’d given him a small smile before dropping her gaze. He’d stopped going to the library almost entirely, because he was afraid if he encountered her alone in his sanctuary he admit something horrid and put her in even more danger than he was sure she was already in.

During one of his midnight rambles, he turned a corner on the fifth floor only to find her quietly closing the door to the prefect’s bath. She had clearly just spent some time in the oversized tub, as she was wrapped in a fluffy, pale blue bathrobe, and her hair was still wet. They froze at the sight of each other, both with eyes wide and mouths agape, unsure what to say or do. In the awkward silence, she dropped her gaze and shifted the towel and small pile of clothes in her arms.

“Are you okay, Malfoy?” she asked quietly, her eyes resting on his face once more.

He inhaled sharply, not sure how to respond. He clenched his jaw to keep the awful truth from spilling forth and simply nodded once.

She studied him for a moment before saying, “I hope so.”

His brow furrowed as he tried to comprehend what she meant while also trying to ignore the rapid pounding of his heart. Her eyes didn’t leave his as she stepped closer.

“Just, just be careful, Malfoy. Please,” she placed her hand on his arm and looked imploringly at him before padding off down the hall, leaving only her cinnamon-vanilla scent behind.

His eyes were stinging, and it felt like he’d swallowed a snitch, but he couldn’t deny the tiny fireworks in his stomach or the way the corners of his mouth twitched up as he continued his late-night stroll.

**Seventh Year**

It was over. The Battle was finished, the war was won, and the nose-less psychopath was dead. He sat with his parents in a rubble-filled corner of the Great Hall as the dust settled and people milled about looking for loved ones and trying to figure out what happens next. He knew his family would be taken into custody soon, knew there would be long and difficult days ahead for anyone who’d landed on the wrong side of this mess. He acknowledged that he had no right, no right at all, but he couldn’t help looking for her.

He had seen her fleetingly at different moments throughout the Battle, their most memorable interaction being that in the Room of Hidden Things as Crabbe tried to kill her and her friends, and they had in turn rescued him and Goyle. She was covered in dirt and grime, her unruly hair in even greater disarray, but the fire was back in her eyes and her determination was unquestionable. She was fearless as she ran through the crumbling castle, casting protective shields and firing curses in tandem. The raw power emanating from her as she dueled Death Eaters and dark supporters was nothing short of magnificent and he had to believe she’d survived.

All of a sudden, he saw her get up from where she’d apparently been sitting with Weasley, and the two made their way out of the Hall, though it seemed something or someone else was in their midst. He was so overwhelmed with relief that he found it hard to breathe for several heartbeats. He remained where he was for another thirty minutes before he could no longer sit still. Quietly informing his mother he was just going to step outside for a moment, he slipped through the still-crowded room unnoticed.

He had no idea where she’d gone, and assumed she was with the other two heroes, who he really had no desire to run into, but he would be satisfied with simply a chance to see her up close, to make sure she truly was alright. His wish was granted far sooner than he’d expected. As he rounded the corner near the Head’s office, he heard their voices and stepped through the door of an empty classroom before they saw him. He heard Potter and Weasley say something about going up to Gryffindor tower, but she said she would join them later, her own footsteps continuing in the direction of his hiding place, while theirs went in the opposite direction.

He heard her pass by the door and waited until she was a step or two beyond it before he entered the corridor. She must have heard him or sensed him, because she whirled around, her hand reaching automatically for her wand but as soon as she saw it was him, her arm dropped to her side. He moved towards her slowly, cautiously, letting his eyes rove over her from head to toe. She was still a mess with dried blood on her neck, and tear tracks visible on her cheeks, but her eyes were still as earnest as ever and they simply studied him as he came to stand directly in front of her.

There were so many things he wanted to say to her but none of them made their way past his lips. He placed trembling hands on her shoulders, gripping her almost as if to prove she was real. She reached up and rested her own hands on top of his and that small motion sent what few defenses he had left crashing down. He pulled her to himself, crushing her in an embrace he knew he had no right to give and yet she didn’t push him away. Instead, she wound her arms around his waist and her shoulders shook as she buried her face in his chest. He pressed his cheek to the top of her head, tears streaming from his eyes as he fought to contain the sobs choking him. He had never been so overwhelmed with relief and gratitude than he was in that moment.

After a while, they pulled apart and simply stared at each other for a minute. Her eyes were still glassy, but a tiny smile tugged at her mouth as she looked at his face as though memorizing it. He grasped her hands and held them tightly, still unable to string more than a few words together.

“I don’t know,” he began, glancing helplessly at the ceiling, “I just want…I needed to…” but she stopped his stilted confession by pulling one hand free and placing it on his cheek, pinning him on the spot with a blazing look filled with emotions he couldn’t even begin to name.

“Just…just find me,” she whispered, “When it’s all over.”

He nodded, tilting his head into her touch and squeezing her other hand. She returned the gesture and then gently let go before turning and heading off back towards the Great Hall.

**ooOoo**

He was pacing the small side-street around the corner from the café she had just entered. This was the fourth day in a row he had watched her do so, watched her follow her familiar routine. Like clockwork, at five after three every afternoon, she exited the building and scurried diagonally across the street to the small coffee shop. After ordering a large tea with two spoons of honey and a splash of milk, she took the long way around the park before making her way back to work. Sometimes, if she wasn’t quite finished yet, she would sit on the bench right by the entrance. Every day he’d relished the sight of her, and every day he’d been overcome with so much fear and insecurity that he’d remained frozen on the spot.

Roughly a year and a half had passed since the Battle. The last time he had seen her was across a crowded courtroom the day of his trial. She had spoken on his behalf, as had her two best friends, and after the verdict was given he had immediately sought her face. She was beaming at him, truly pleased with the results, and was wiping tears off her cheeks as she nodded in his direction before being escorted from the chambers.

That had been ten months ago. Following his release, he had been swept up in a myriad of other trials, testifying against other Death Eaters, giving eye-witness accounts regarding their covert locations and plans, and helping uncover troves of dark artifacts. After that, there had been reparations to make and loose ends from his father’s business dealings to tie up. The estate was in shambles and it took awhile for the dust to settle and everything to fall into some semblance of order. As soon as it had, though, he focused all his attentions on her.

It had been no trouble finding out where she worked; the entire Wizarding World knew Hermione Granger’s general whereabouts. He also learned where she lived, and quickly figured out her basic daily routine. Then came the hard part. For all those months, her parting words to him had been the one thing that kept him going.

_“Just…just find me,” she whispered, “When it’s all over.”_

He still heard her voice and saw her tearstained face as if she was standing right in front of him, and now it was _all over_ but he couldn’t shake the doubt that perhaps she no longer meant that. Perhaps those were just words spoken in the wake of incredible tragedy and triumph. Perhaps she realized what she’d said and thought better of it now. He didn’t think he could bear that.

Heaving a deep sigh, he had just decided to go home and send her an owl instead, when he looked towards the end of the little alleyway he’d been pacing and saw her. She was standing there, watching him, and even from several feet away he could see her eyes welling up with tears and her lower lip trembling. She was clutching the paper coffee cup between her hands as if it was a lifeline and he noticed her shoulders shaking.

He walked nearer, moving slowly enough to give her time to leave if she wanted to, but she didn’t move. He stopped just inches from her and gazed down at the face he had memorized and dreamt about for so long. Her warm brown eyes roved across him, studying him with an intensity that made his breath hitch. Tears were falling from her lashes and his heart clenched at the sight of them. He used his thumb to gently brush one away and that seemed to be the catalyst that sent her into motion. Her cup was flung to the ground as she jumped up and wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder, now crying in earnest.

He embraced her tightly, reveling in the feel of her in his arms, inhaling the scent of her glossy curls, and trying to calm the stampeding of his heart which was causing him to feel lightheaded. He pressed gentle kisses to the side of her head and whispered how much he’d missed her and how long he’d waited for this, for her. When they finally pulled apart, she wiped her eyes and looked at him questioningly.

“What are you doing here?” she gestured to the nondescript street they currently occupied.

He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand while sheepishly looking at the ground, “I was looking for you. I wanted to see you, just for a moment, if you had time…” he trailed off, unsure how to explain that he’d thought of nothing else for over a year.

“You can have more than just a moment, Draco,” she said softly, and he looked up to see her eyes sparkling and her perfect lips turned up in the most beautiful smile.

“I can?” he rasped out.

She nodded, “You can have all of them, if you want.”

His heart was ready to burst out of his chest as he pulled her back into his arms, “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

**Author's Note:**

> The events in here follow the books, not the movies (I love both, but there are some discrepancies). Just a sweet little story about stolen moments between my two favorite characters. Thank you so much for reading! Would love for you to check out my other fics, too! :)  
> *If you would like to read the parallel to this story from Hermione’s POV, please check out “One Moment More!” :)


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